Awakening
by Dal Niente
Summary: Oneshot. In the middle of the night, Roxanne pulls Megamind out of sleep. He is okay with it. Rated M.


Okay okay okay. You guys. Confession time. This is the first time I've ever posted something with even semi-graphic sex in it.

See, I have this _thing_ about aliens, and it's that I think convergent evolution can only take two species in the same direction so far before the similarities start to break down. There's no reason that Megamind shouldn't have the same equipment as human males (and in my head, he usually does). However, there is _also_ no reason for him to _have_ the same equipment, and this fic explores that possibility.

Anyway. Oneshot, rated M, PWP. Post-movie, established relationship.

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><p><strong>Awakening<strong>

He is beautiful like this, long blue limbs splayed open over her sheets in the moonlight, still as death but for his shallow breathing. His head is thrown back and his long neck bared in trusting sleep.

Beautiful is not an adjective he would have chosen, certainly, but in the privacy of her own mind, Roxanne admires him on her terms.

She bends her head and traces a line from his collarbone to his ear with her tongue. In his sleep, Megamind mutters something in a dying language and moves his head a little. Roxanne grins, and kisses her way, very slowly, down his body until he comes awake with a gasp and a moan.

It has taken her some time to learn how to move him, how to make him dance for her; his erogenous zones are different from those of the few human males she has allowed herself to trust like this. Small wonder, given that beyond his immediate features his physiology is almost totally different from that of a human's.

The crooks of certain joints, the skin on the backs of his knees and inner elbows and also, inexplicably, behind his anklebones, is especially sensitive—there is a _reason_ he rarely wears anything other than long sleeves and trousers and boots. The high collars are also by design; the back of his neck, from the base of his skull to his C7 vertebra, is highly sensitized as well. The first time she kissed it, he gasped. The last time she kissed it, he screamed. Granted, that hadn't been _all_ she had been doing at the time.

It is also something of a weak spot for him, one of the few he has. He is very strong, very tough, but the size and weight of his skull render his long neck vulnerable—medium to severe whiplash could very easily kill him, despite his species' unique adaptations and his own mechanical augmentations. That he can lie fast asleep in Roxanne's bed, in her home, without any means of immediate protection, is a demonstration of a trust she isn't sure she can match.

She wraps her fingers around his throat, and he lets her, watching her silently with luminous green eyes, his breathing shallow through parted lips. She squeezes, very very gently, and feels him swallow against her palm.

Still he does not move, not until she moves back up and presses her lips to the sweet spot just behind his sharp jaw, teasing with tongue and teeth, and then his eyes flutter closed and he fists both hands in the sheets and lets out a long, shuddering breath that ends in a low whine when she runs her free hand over him _there_.

That had taken some getting used to. And oh, he had been terrified the first time they had coupled, terrified and convinced that she would refuse him once she saw what he could not offer her.

On the contrary, she had been fascinated. There is nothing between his legs that can be called a sex organ—the really important bits are just _above_ that, an intricate dappling pattern of spots and curving lines on his lower abdomen, darker blue than the rest of his skin. They are silvery when he is aroused, and textured like sandpaper and silk.

She draws her nails over the thin skin between the silvered markings, a path she has memorized by now, never touching where he wants it most until he groans again and grits his teeth, every line of his body taut and begging. Always, she keeps one hand at his neck—as long as she holds him there, he won't move; no matter how difficult it is, he will lie still beneath her hands. She does not do this often, knowing how much it must cost him. But Megamind knows she will never hurt him.

He is beautiful like this.

Another time, she might draw it out for hours, but not now. Megamind is all but pleading now, gasping and tense under her hands, wide eyes staring at her, searching, trying to tell what she is thinking. Roxanne hasn't set the mood properly for extended lovemaking, so she throws a leg over him and straddles his sex, moves and grinds down against him and smiles at the relieved sound that he makes. She takes her time, enjoys the feel of him rough-soft against her.

(Roxanne has discovered, through a lot of research and speculation and guesswork (and, finally, just gritting her teeth and asking an embarrassed Minion), that the patterns on Megamind's body are glands of some sort, vestigial organs from a time when the adults of his species bore live young. Their original purpose was to provide incentive for sex, and they secrete a complex blend of hormones virtually identical to the ones Roxanne's brain produces during orgasm: norepinephrine, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, and several others with equally odd names she cannot remember, all in a homogenous solution that is specifically designed for rapid absorption through skin and mucous membranes.

Simply put, he makes her feel _good_. She can only hope that she feels as good to him.)

They are close, now, both of them very close, and she leans down and runs teeth and lips over the tendons of his neck. She nips along sharp collarbones and scratches lightly across the place where his spine meets his skull until he cries out and his hips buck up and his body clenches, and she finds her own release in the sudden explosion of endorphins his body sends hers. She drops to her elbows on top of him, but her head falls until they are forehead to forehead, eyes closed.

They stay like that until their breathing slows, until Megamind's throat flexes under her hand and she lets go. Even then he only places his hands on either side of her face and looks up at her, lips curling in at the corners, for a long moment before he cranes his head up to kiss her.

She lies back down and relaxes into his embrace, her ear against his chest, and closes her eyes and waits for him to fall back down into sleep. It doesn't take long.

She cannot express in words how badly she aches for him sometimes—she cannot get close enough to him, and she thinks maybe he knows it. He knows a lot of things, and picks up intuitively on more than Roxanne ever could. He sleeps like a dead man; once he is asleep he tends not to move until morning, but when she presses full-length against him he will shift and wrap his arms around her, pull her close and warm. There is strength in those wiry arms of his, an inhuman amount of strength and endurance, and once he has hold of her he doesn't let go.


End file.
